All the Pretty Maids: Spike and Dru
by Alchemyofanaccident
Summary: This is a back history, taking place in 1900, during the Boxer Rebellion - at which time Spike kills his first slayer. Enjoy!


"Look at all the people," Drusilla purred, her fingers languidly dancing their way up Spike's shirt front. Her dark almond eyes flicked up to his, before they once more became transfixed on the scene of celebration unfolding below, though their capture of attention had very little to do with the parade itself – and more to do with her insatiable appetite for gore and violence. "I *love* people. They make my tummy warm." She absolutely adored chaos, whether it be burning down an entire village and slaughtering its inhabitants, as they fled for their lives, or inflicting some otherworldly and painstakingly slow torture upon her hapless victim, through cruel mind games and digit removal. In the end, she would have her fun and play with God's creations like a spoiled child surrounded by dolls.

"Yes, luv." Spike cooed, his lips twisting into something of a cold smile as he slipped his arms around the brunette's waist and followed her gaze to the commotion below. "All those *little* people. Millions of tiny little people; all milling about their business – and completely unaware that death lurks around the corner." He explained in his ever attentive voice. Drusilla, was his weakness. She'd been the first thing he'd seen when he'd stepped into this life, on that fateful night in 1888, his humility dashed, his reputation destroyed, all because of some bloody awful poetry he'd poured his heart into. Who would've guessed that immortality would've marked a grander scale? She'd made him strong and resilient, she'd taken the weakness that was 'William the Bloody' and morphed it into something indestructible. He felt like a God. And if it weren't for that bloody Ponce, Angelus, he and Drusilla would pave their own way – in crimson.

The brunette smiled. "Sing to me more, Spike..." Her voice weaved out in a sultry whisper as she turned in his embrace and slipped her arms around his neck. "I love it when you sing, even if Daddy doesn't." She moaned, softly, one hand languidly reaching upward to cup his face, her fingertips leaving a seductive path as they trailed down the planes of his cheek toward the strong curve of his jaw.

Spike's skin crawled with a delicious tingle. Her touch always left him wanting – it brought forth an ache of longing which he could never quite reign in. It was as if a fire had been lit beneath his flesh, one that he never wanted to quench or extinguish. "Baby, I will sing to you from now until the end of our eternity," With words laced in passion, he lifted one of his arms away from her petite waist and curved her cheek with his palm.

"Mmhmmm," She moaned, closing her eyes in contentment and nuzzling into his hand. "Will you still sing when everything's burning?" she asked, her expression masked with serenity.

"You bet I will, Sugar Cakes." He chuckled. She had some odd turn of phrases, but that was one of the things he loved most about her; her strange and twisted view of the world around her. "We'll sing, we'll dance, we'll turn the bloody world upside down!" His declaration was met with a fit of giggles, her eyes glittering with a child like glee, as she suddenly pulled away from him and skipped back through the open doors of the verandah, her delicate footsteps lighter than air and as graceful as a ballerina, her dark burgundy dress fluttering around her as she twirled.

"With fire and chariots!" she exclaimed, her voice broken through another bout of chilling laughter. "We'll burn them, and turn them, and pluck their eyes from their sockets! Like blowing out candles," she confessed, forcing out a puff of air.

"Just like candles, Luv," Spike swept into the room after her and pulled the doors closed behind him, his movements every bit the suave debonair. The music of the celebration and the warm night air suddenly cut off.

"Spike...," Drusilla giggled excitedly as she danced her way back over to him. "Wax is sticky – like old blood." Her expression flickered with confusion, then her child-like excitement returned. "I like old blood. I like to squish it between my fingers; like it's a game." She mimed squishing the air and upturned her gaze to him, her dark chocolate brown eyes dancing as she reached up to trail her fingers along his well cut cheekbone. Which, elicited another shiver. His bottom lip quivered, a reflection of the effect that she had on him – her tether to him; bound through the blood that she'd shared, the night she'd given him the eternal kiss and brought him into *their* world – of Vampires. It was a world that he'd been ignorant of his entire life.

When she found him, broken and alone inside of that barn, something felt oddly familiar about her – it felt right. She'd talked non-sense, but it hadn't taken much convincing for him throw his caution into the wind and trust her. Anything had to be better than that Hell of a life he'd been subjected to. He'd been scorned, ridiculed – and rejected above everything else by the one woman whom he'd poured all of his poetry into. But Drusilla swooped in like an angel of death, promising a world beyond his imagination – and he'd taken it, without question.


End file.
